


photosynthesize (and drink up the sunrise)

by FaiaSakura



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Kent Parson, Bisexual Larissa "Lardo" Duan, Coming Out, Friends to Lovers, Mental Health Issues, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Larissa "Lardo" Duan, Other, Trans Male Character, Trans Male Kent Parson, Unspecified Mental Health Disorder, parse positive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-12 15:51:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19135243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaiaSakura/pseuds/FaiaSakura
Summary: Lardo wasn’t anticipating much time for relationships or dating when she moved to New York.If she’s truthful to herself, she doesn’t know what she was anticipating.But Kent feels like coming home.The one where starving artist Lardo meets Kent, son of the local bakery owner. Romance ensues, revelations are had, and things don't end so much as they progress.





	photosynthesize (and drink up the sunrise)

**Author's Note:**

> I was so excited to work with the amazing art made by [abominableobriens](https://abominableobriens.tumblr.com) for the OMGCP Reverse Big Bang 2019! 
> 
> Shout out to my betas [ailurea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ailurea/pseuds/ailurea) and [halfdesertedstreets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfdesertedstreets/pseuds/halfdesertedstreets) for working under a time crunch! <3
> 
> Title inspiration from Vienna Teng’s Never Look Away.

Lardo needs to get her life in order.

Step one would be to sleep, so she can face the challenges of being a starving artist as a well-rested-if-starving artist. Instead, she’s scrolling through a rabbit hole of different tattooists on Instagram, while trying to ignore the nonsensical dreams that woke her up at the obscenely early hour of five in the morning.

The dreams, blurry snatches Lardo can’t resolve into focus, only serve to heighten her existential angst over the unknown future that looms in her path like a gaping chasm.

Crisp geometric lines on dark skin, meaningful words still tinged red, a full-body canvas covered in color. There are infinite images for Lardo to tap through, tags to track, and artists to follow.

She can’t seem to put her phone away to attempt to sleep again, even as her nerves worsen each time Lardo glances at the time that is slowly ticking away. It reads 5:34 before Lardo has enough of the way her heart is trying to jump out of her chest, of the way her fingers itch and limbs twitch.

A run will clear her head.

Lardo doesn't enjoy exercise, cardio or otherwise, but discovered back in college that going for a jog would somehow give her a few hours of productive energy afterward. She might as well get exercise since there's no going back to sleep.

After rooting around her laundry basket for acceptable clothes to go jogging in, Lardo grabs her water bottle, earphones, and cellphone before heading out of her apartment complex.

The sky outside is a light, pre-dawn blue. It's luckily still somewhat cool, though the muggy humidity weighs down on Lardo steadily as she does some half-assed stretching.

She's not quite sure what stretches runners do, and never exercises hard or long enough that pulling a muscle is a legitimate concern, but figures it can’t hurt to do some lunges and flamingo legs.

Lardo flicks through her music, unsatisfied with all her options. None of her carefully curated playlists call out to her.

Eventually, she settles for opening Pandora. The Kesha channel, for some badass female vocals, suits her mood as much as anything will, even if the consequence is a plethora of ads that are never relevant to her interests. Shouldn't a company as big as Pandora have targeted advertising algorithms by now?

Pink's loud voice over the earphones drown away the lingering anxiety and Lardo starts moving.

The streets are already awake, or perhaps like her, never went to sleep. She passes by joggers and dog walkers—probably real morning people—and all sorts of folk getting ready for the day. A man is trimming some hedges and a woman is tossing some small unidentifiable object towards her laughing child. Plenty of people head towards the subways.

Lardo can’t actually run for very long and slows to a walk after two blocks.

Even though the oppressive humidity means that she’s already sticky after a few blocks, her head is clearer than it has been for the last day, at least.

She absentmindedly rubs at the shaved side of her hair, enjoying the prickly sensation that makes her fingertips tingle. It’s getting long—she’ll need to buzz it again soon. The rest of her hair is a sweaty mess contained in a ponytail. Maybe she could crop it or go pixie; the summer is only going to get hotter and long hair isn’t worth the trouble.

A couple blocks more of jogging and the foggy dread in her mind, that shrouds everything she wants and needs to do in apathy, lifts away. When she runs, there’s just the pump of her legs and the sound of her music.

Sunlight peeks past the buildings now, mixing the with ever-present city smog to produce faint pinks and oranges that paint the sky. Lardo snaps a shot of it—maybe it will give her inspiration if she can find the energy to paint.

Lardo walks and jogs, wandering the neighborhood and exploring new streets. There are always new murals or graffiti to discover, and her fully charged phone will direct her home if she gets lost. Each explosion of creativity on cracked concrete and aged brick is a new treasure to find. She snaps more pictures and puts them into a folder, to be contemplated over later.

She’s going down a new street when Lardo catches a delicious whiff of baked goods and coffee. The scent trail leads to a shop labeled _Rainbow Panadería_ in swirly block letters.

Her stomach rumbles and reminds her that the last thing she ate was some cup noodles with an egg, yesterday afternoon. A twenty dollar bill and a credit card in her phone case begging to buy something delicious makes her mind up.

Right before she opens the door, Lardo thinks that maybe she shouldn’t have just pulled clothes out of her laundry basket, now that she needs to interact with people past a simple “hi” when jogging past.

Oh, well. A gentle wind chime jingles above her as she pushes open the door.

“Buenos días!” a man behind the counter calls out to her. “Feel free to look around.”

Three things hit Lardo in rapid sequence.

First, there is glorious air conditioning in this shop and it is a heaven-sent blast of cold air on her clammy skin. Goosebumps travel across her arms as the door shuts behind her.  

Second, the bakery smells infinitely better from inside. The delectable scents of coffee, bread, and cake envelop her. As she steps towards the display counter filled with delights of all sorts, she can pick out more scents—chocolate and cinnamon, savory eggs, too.

Third, the man behind the counter, who cannot be much older than her, is _pretty,_  with freckles standing out on tan skin, smoky dark blue eyes and artfully tossed hair. Not to mention the sunny smile that he aims at her right before he turns away to serve a customer.

The sizable breakfast crowd both sitting at tables and waiting to order give Lardo ample time to look at the display. Despite that, when it’s finally her turn to order, she ends up asking the guy behind the counter, Kent, according to his name tag, “What would you recommend?”

Lardo internally cringes even before she finishes speaking. She worked as a waitress before, and an open-ended request for recommendations is the worst. How is she supposed to know what a random stranger likes? She corrects her initial question, adding on, “I’m thinking some kind of coffee and a chocolatey bread.”

“Well, our café de olla is pretty great, and we’re also known for our Juan, Two, Three. It’s café de olla, caramel, and coconut milk—hot or iced. As for the pan dulce, you can’t go wrong with a chocolate concha.” His tone is kind and bright, and she wonders if he’s naturally this friendly or if his customer service voice is just that on point.

“That sounds great. I’ll get a large iced Juan, Two, Three and a chocolate concha.” Lardo thinks she doesn’t stumble over the few Spanish words in her sentence but feels self-conscious anyway since it's apparent Kent is either a native speaker or otherwise highly fluent.

“Awesome. You’re order number 73 and your food and drink will be ready in ten minutes.”

Lardo stands around with other customers waiting on their orders and takes in more of the décor. The inside of the bakery is brightly painted, decorated with neon signs Lardo can hear buzzing in the background and gorgeous artwork that fill the walls.

She stares at the various paintings, captivated by the bright colors and variety of subject matter, until a niggling sensation starts creeping in, reminding her of the unfinished piece waiting for her at home.

Lardo turns her head back towards people in the shop.

Bustling folk from all walks of life are picking up orders to-go and chattering at the tables. Everyone is full of life or trying to get there by inhaling their coffee.

Lardo grabs her order when called and finds a cozy corner seat by the window.

The first sip of coffee is _delicious_ and she closes her eyes to properly savor the rich mix of spices from the café de olla that mix with the sweet caramel and creamy coconut milk. Her first bite of the chocolate concha is equally amazing—the bread is sweet and fluffy, chocolate coat crumbling in her mouth but not falling off the remaining bread.

Lardo already knows she’ll be back here as she settles in to people watch.

A man talks on his phone, some sort of business call, two tables away from her. A woman chats with Kent in Spanish—a regular customer, perhaps.

Outside, the streets pick up in traffic, human and automobiles alike. A teenager of ambiguous gender skateboards by the window.

Harlem is fit to burst in a riot of color—everything currently lacking in Lardo’s life and part of the reason she escaped to here. She wishes she could roll all the unique pieces and bright flashes and raw energy into a joint, breathe in to fill her lungs and mind alike with the warm haze of life itself. To have passion extend to every last corner of her consciousness, instead of fighting piecemeal for moments of clarity through running, of all things.

After catching the last crumbs of her bread, and not quite ready to face the sticky heat of summer now that the sun stands firmly in the sky, Lardo directs her attention back towards the art on the bakery walls.

Some are of bread and cake, delicious paint renditions of the products available in the display counter. A few paintings are up-close imagery of flowers, in vivid reds and oranges and purples. Lardo can’t discern an overall theme amongst all the art. There’s also a painting of a fluffy Himalayan cat with striking turquoise eyes lounging on a chaise. The only common element is that acrylic paint was used to make every piece.

“Lovely, aren’t they? My wife made them.”

Lardo startles badly enough that her chair squeaks on the tile flooring as she jolts towards the woman speaking to her.

The woman appears to be in her mid-fifties, Hispanic, wearing an apron covered in flour and a nametag that says Mariana. She looks at Lardo with a fondness Lardo wouldn’t expect from a stranger.

“They’re beautiful,” Lardo says, partly because she’s not sure what else to say.

Mariana beams at Lardo, radiant in her joy. “Sí, aren’t they? Amélie used to sit here and sketch things she saw outside the window or remembered in her mind. She told me the walls were too plain and started to make the paintings until they were filled with her art.” Her eyes glimmer with nostalgic remembrance but there’s a moment where something like bittersweet regret flashes for a moment, then gone the next.

Lardo, caught off guard by this entire conversation, finds herself saying, "I'm also an artist. Sculptures, most often, but recently acrylics. Paintings.”

Her statement gets taken as an invitation for conversation.

Somehow, Lardo finds herself chatting with Mariana, about art and baking and the gentrification efforts the local neighborhood is trying to stop and a half-dozen other topics. The panadería is almost empty by the time Lardo sips on the dregs of her coffee.

She’s laughing at a story about Mariana’s daughter getting in trouble for spit-ball contests as a child when the man from behind the display counter approaches.  

Mamá, tomando de nuevo los perros callejeros? Kent asks something in Spanish with a teasing tone before switching to English. “Who is your new friend?”

“Ella es—” Mariana frowns, realizing she never asked for Lardo’s name. “Oh, dear. We never made introductions. I’m Mariana and this is my son Kent.”

“I’m Lardo,” Lardo says, before remembering that most people don’t call each other with hockey names. She shakes her head before correcting herself, “I mean Larissa.”

Mariana hums in contemplation, observing Lardo with a wisdom that probably comes with time and experience. "What we call our self, it is important. What other people call us, is important. Which name do you want us to call you by?”

Lardo feels caught off-guard by the question. Most people would automatically dismiss _Lardo_ as a childish in-joke and use the normal sounding _Larissa_.  

Pretty much anyone not in her hockey circle calls Lardo _Larissa_. And that's fair because it is her name but—

 _Larissa_ is soft.  It’s _Larissa-what-a-pretty-name_. It’s _Larissa-how-unique_. It’s keeping silent at the dinner table and overly-friendly relatives tutting at her short hair and being told she looks prettier in dresses.

 _Lardo_ is self-expression and rough edges and uncertainty hidden by few words spoken with false confidence, but it’s also acceptance and freedom and the breath of fresh air Lardo never knew she needed.

Given a choice, Lardo chooses the name she has grown into over the name that doesn’t quite fit her anymore.

“Lardo,” she says.

The three of them chat for a moment further before Lardo is finally pushing out of her chair and heading out of the softly chiming doorway, with a spring in her step that even the sweltering heat can’t crush.

Lardo decides to make the most of her hard-won energy from the exercise and the boost in mood the coffee provides.

Back in her admittedly shitty studio apartment that she's subletting, Lardo touches the paints that have been lying undisturbed on the floor for the last two weeks. Looking at the half-finished portrait she’s planning on submitting to a gallery showcase doesn’t cause her to seize up with inexplicable dread, for the first time in just as long.

At least, for now, it doesn't.

She picks up her brush, digs into herself for a handful of inspiration, and paints.

\---

Lardo is aware of her flaws, painfully so.

She knows that one day she’ll run out of high-functioning juice such that running can't replenish – ha – and that she’s a bloody hypocrite for not seeking help.

How many times had she insisted to her friends that they get help? _Go to the campus counseling center! Talk with the Dean of Wellness! Have you asked for local mental health resources that fit into your private insurance plan?_

And yet.

Here Lardo lays in bed, awake at four o’clock in the fucking morning, unable to quiet her mind enough to sleep, unable to muster the energy to accomplish anything worthwhile. Stuck in a cycle of inaction, hovering at the edge between functional and failure.

Here Lardo lives, alone in New York City, deliberately cut off from the bulk of her support system, under the guise of _finding herself_. She posts pictures on social media, and sends even more to friends, of all the interesting things she encounters.

It's all for show.

She hides behind aesthetic photos and group chat emojis, a thin mask that is bound to start showing cracks soon.

It’s been days again since she last touched the damn portrait that takes up space in a large corner of her room, but even the thought of holding the brush weighs down her limbs like lead.

She needs to be at the art gallery at ten for her shift, and intended on getting at least a little sleep, but…

Instead, she's lost at least an hour of precious sleep time scrolling aimlessly on Pinterest, half-guilty about frequenting a site that is mostly stolen artwork.

Maybe the dozens of boards she’s made since graduation will manifest into the real world, into her art, instead of cluttering her account.

It’d be as likely as her actually getting some decent rest.

Lardo tosses and turns with her eyes closed for a solid half hour before getting out of bed in admittance of defeat. She shrugs on a light cardigan and heads for the streets.

She strolls about aimlessly because honestly, fuck running. Being sweaty and out of breath holds no appeal right now. In the back of her mind, she can hear her parents’ criticism about how it isn’t safe in _that kind_ of neighborhood.

 _That kind_. Lardo couldn’t tell at the time if her parents were referring to Harlem’s predominantly black population or the high poverty rates in the neighborhood. Probably both, knowing them.

A curdle of disgust grows in Lardo’s stomach as she recalls how she gave them her new temporary address and after they looked up where it was, insisted on giving her money so she wouldn’t have to live with _those people_.

It’s the twenty-first century, who even uses the phrase _those people_?

Some people might think immigrants from Vietnam would find solidarity with other diasporic communities in the United States. They would be wrong.

Lardo kicks a stray can out of frustration at her inability to curb her parents’ blatant racism and classism, at the remembrance of how she bought into their views as a child, at how she still has work to do to untangle all the prejudiced ideas thinly disguised as cultural values.

The can clatters down the sidewalk, unexpectedly loud from how empty the streets are. Lardo picks it up with a sigh, tosses it into a nearby recycling bin, and enjoys the satisfying _plonk_ it makes as it lands.  

She looks up to find herself standing in front of the panadería she’s been frequenting for the last few weeks. The front lights of the shop are dark, with looming shadows that shift with movement from where someone is making preparations in the kitchen.

A figure moves into Lardo’s line of sight—Mariana.

Mariana pauses for a moment, looking at Lardo in confusion before her face lights up in recognition. Lardo watches as Mariana wipes her hands off and comes to the shop entrance, ushering Lardo in.

“Buenos días, Lardo.” Mariana pulls her into a hug that smells like flour and feels like unconditional acceptance.

“Oh, um, I didn’t mean to interrupt your work. I’m just taking a walk around the neighborhood.” Lardo hedges, not sure if she should be in here. But something tight loosens in her chest from the way an accented _Lardo_ rolls off Mariana’s tongue, unwinds further as Lardo wraps her arms around Mariana to reciprocate the hug.

There used to be a time where Lardo didn't know how to hug. In middle school, when her friends decided hugs were A Thing We Do, Lardo was stiff and unsure of where her arms should go. Hugs between members of her family were uncommon, and she was distinctly aware of her awkward unfamiliarity with casual intimacy. By the time she got to college, she had figured it out, but never quite got comfortable proactively seeking out platonic physical connections, relying instead on the excuses of being drunk or high to demand cuddles, or letting others initiate.

 _Touch-starved_ , Shitty once said.

When Mariana releases Lardo, she feels more settled into her skin than she had moments before.

Mariana says simply, “I know a lost soul when I see one. Come, help me in the kitchen.”

The help Lardo provides can only be called that in the loosest sense, since mostly she just stands around as Mariana bustles around the kitchen. They chatter about things of little consequence, like the new tea blend a friend gave Mariana to try and the most recent artist lecture Lardo helped organize at the gallery she works at.

It’s nice, the small talk and gossip. Kent joins them halfway through the preparations, a seamless addition who chatters about all the cute habits their family cat has and how they're similar to the little league hockey kids he coaches.  

After Lardo helps Kent carry out freshly-baked breads to the counter, and mentions needing to head back to her apartment to shower and dress before her shift, she finds herself holding a custard filled cuernos and iced coffee that the mother and son duo refuse to accept payment for.

She accepts, bashfully offering thanks and leaving the bakery refreshed despite the lack of sleep.

—

Lardo walks down the aisle of the record shop, fingers brushing over records as she admires all the cover art. There’s a special spark of glee every time she recognizes an album or artist she likes.

Her house never had a record player, only cassette players and CD players. She grew up recording songs on the radio to make mixtapes. But Gloria-from-down-the-street had a record player, or rather her music-loving father had one, and Lardo spent a significant number of afternoons in high school enjoying that characteristic smooth-with-background-skipping sound of the old rock band records Gloria’s father owned.

Or enjoying Gloria talk away at her. The music was good but Lardo perhaps spent too much time pining over painfully-straight-Gloria.

Lardo chases away thoughts and turns her attention back to the records she is skimming her fingers over.

If Lardo fulfills the millennial dream of financial stability, she’ll indulge in getting a nice record player and start a collection—

—when she's not walking into someone in a denim jacket.

“Shit, sorry, brah, I zoned out.” She looks up to see Kent, looking just as surprised to see her as she is to see him.

“Kent!” she exclaims, shocked to see him somewhere other than the bakery. It’s not that she doesn’t know he and Mariana exist outside of Rainbow Panadería. But all of their interactions have taken place in there and somehow seeing him in another context throws her off balance.

Kent turns to face her fully. He looks good, wearing a denim jacket decorated with so many pins that Lardo idly wonders how heavy it must weigh. Some are faded pinback buttons, others are shiny enamel pins. There are iron-on patches too, on the sleeves and back. Lardo’s eye is drawn towards a trans pride flag enamel pin that sits next to a hand-shaped enamel pin with the bi flag colors that reads ‘Goodbi.’ A shiny pin that reads ‘Am I More Than You Bargained For Yet’ in purple surrounding a set of antlers, a button reading SAICOS off center and several other band pins form a cluster on the right. There are several cat pins scattered around, including a black cat carrying a butcher’s knife in its mouth.

"Hey Lardo, what's up?" He smiles at her now, an inviting expression that makes her smile back in response.

"Nothing much," she replies. "I work across the street and haven't gotten to check this place out yet since most of my music is on Spotify these days. What have you got?”

He's carrying a couple of records and a print of what looks like young Paul McCartney.

“My sister Izzy has been trying to track down these records for ages, I had the shop owner Manny be on the lookout for them. They’re going to be a birthday present for her. And this is a Hot Paul to add to my friend’s collection.”

“Hot Paul?” Lardo asks, able to hear the capitalization of the ‘h’ in Hot Paul from the emphasis.

“Yeah, El, who runs a local QPOC meetup, marks the time between 1974 and 1975 when Paul McCartney was clean-shaven as the time of Hot Paul, where he peaked in physical attractiveness," Kent explains. “I don't think she has this pic in her collection yet, so I'm getting it for her."

“Huh. I’m not familiar with what Paul McCartney looks like in every year but he’s pretty cute in that.” Lardo continues, “It’s nice of you to get that for her. And the records for your sister.”

“Yeah, well, you know,” Kent hedges. His ears turn a delicate shade of pink.

For once, Lardo does, in fact, know. She has the same tendency to spot things she knows a friend will like, and preemptively purchase it for them, holding onto the gift until a suitable gift-giving occasion comes around. It’s not a particularly practical habit, as a starving college student turned starving artist, but that delight a friend gets when they realize you pay attention to their interests makes everything worth it.

"Totally, dude, I do the same," Lardo says. “Or I’ll make something unique, depending on how well I know them.”

Kent’s smile is back in full force.

Lardo ends up sitting at a bench right outside the record shop, chattering with Kent through an eclectic path of topics. What music they grew up listening too. How Leah got shafted in the Twilight series. The double-edged set of expectations that come with being queer and a person of color. How hot Rami Malek was in Bohemian Rhapsody. The tragedy of what counts as fashion among male hockey players.

She’s only known Kent for only a few weeks.

But with every word, Lardo keeps discovering more beautiful similarities and complementary differences.

And their voices raise in unison with heated emotion over the same subjects, sparks of passion that startle the loitering pigeons and unsuspecting passerby.

And when their eyes catch, Lardo keeps seeing the heady weight of recognition, of understanding, reflecting towards her.

When they realize two hours have passed and both have places to do, they part with an invitation from Kent come over and listen to records, and Lardo’s offer to teach Kent how to paint with acrylics.

And an exchange of phone numbers.

\---

 _If I have to spend another hour listening to these pretentious a-holes ask what I think the art means and then steamroll over my explanation I’ll murder someone,_ Lardo texts to Kent.

The gallery Lardo works at features a lot of modern art and pop culture, including many collections from artists who built up initial followings from drawing fanart or posting to social media. Consequently, most people who come in are of the not-pretentious, not-mansplaining crowd—from random folk who wander in after seeing the display art to millennials interested in buying cute enamel pins from their shop.

But for some reason, these two bros—loud men wearing board shorts and tanks can only be called bros in the worst sense—have come in, seemingly with no purpose other than to test Lardo’s patience. They walk about, making disparaging comments on the price of the featured works available for purchase and loudly wondering what any of the art means, all while trying to include Lardo in on it.

Lardo greeted them initially with a friendly customer service face but has since pulled out her half resting indifference, half resting bitch face.

They don’t get the memo but do finally leave after another twenty damn minutes of poking around.

Her phone buzzes with a response from Kent. _dont murder any1 then you cant come over tonight_

She laughs over Kent’s priorities and sends back a 😝.

Some more customers come in and she channels her lingering fondness from her exchange with Kent into a bright and welcoming greeting.

\---

“This is either a lot easier than I’ve been led to believe my whole life, or you’re just prodigious at teaching art," Kent says, in between the gentle breaths he blows on the drying canvas. "I'm leaning towards you being a bomb-ass art teacher."  

This is the second mini-canvas that Kent has painted under Lardo’s instruction. The first was a series of fluffy clouds traveling across a sky done in pastel mimicry of the bi flag and rests propped up on Kent’s nightstand, somewhat visible from where they sit on the floor of his room. This new one is a soft nebula set amongst twinkling stars in the night sky.

Lardo clears out her throat, trying to ignore the tingle of mixed embarrassment and thrill from the praise and suggests with a light voice, "Maybe I'm just unlocking your hidden artistic talents."

Kent bluntly ignores Lardo’s attempt at deflection. “Nah, it’s you. You’re amazing.”

Not to be conceited, but Lardo has received plenty of compliments before. Relatives cooing over her smooth skin and skinny figure, friends praising her art skills, hockey boys wildly and drunkenly cheering about her sheer awesomeness.

But Kent speaks with a deliberate honestly that cuts past the defenses most people don’t even notice Lardo puts up, and Lardo does not know how to handle the way her heart jumps, pumping blood to her face and jittery nerves down to her fingertips.

She looks at him, then away. Her hand goes up to rub the newly shaved side of her head. “Thanks.” Lardo doesn't even try to stop the smile that creeps out.  

\---

Kent-from-Rainbow-Panadería becomes texting-pal-Kent. Close-friend-who-gets-it-Kent becomes my-boyfriend-Kent.

Lardo wasn’t anticipating much time for relationships or dating when she moved to New York.

(If she’s truthful to herself, she doesn’t know what she was anticipating.)

The thought of dating another friend, rather than finding a partner with deliberate romantic-sexual intent, should terrify Lardo after the way things turned out with Shitty.

Spoiler: it was shitty.

But Kent feels like coming home.

Their relationship is by no means perfect, but somehow, they match.

The arguments that start up don’t end with digging barbs into soft, exposed flesh.

The apologies are honest.

Maybe if should scare Lardo that even the hard parts are easy.

But it doesn’t.

Spending time with Kent is equal amounts discovering new things about him, and new things about her, with space for each of them grow without hindering the other.

\---

Lardo manages a “Love you, too” before she hangs up on her parents and lets the guilt seep into her. The _I love you_ isn’t a lie, but some other part of Lardo is.

Her parents hold a certain image of their daughter, partly their own assumptions, partly what Lardo actually is, but also partly what Lardo has let them believe over the years.

Lardo isn’t sure how to be the perfect daughter. Most of the time, Lardo isn’t even sure what being a _daughter_ means.

There’s not a single moment Lardo can think of, an “aha!” moment that can be picked out. Lardo isn’t even sure what the “aha!” is.

But there is an increasing discomfort in her own skin, especially after interactions like this, after the clearly gendered way her parents speak to her, weaving into casual conversation the traditional family expectations that trample over her agency.

It’s like this. At the heart of it, Lardo doesn’t quite understand femininity or womanhood. A lot of the spiel about sisterhoods is intended towards a cisgendered audience and promotes a specific set of societal expectations.

Lardo understands the current definitions of feminine and masculine in this fine year in America, but there are multiple genders and Lardo doesn’t know what intrinsically divides them, only that there must be something.

And if Lardo doesn’t experience gender dysphoria, she doesn’t feel gender euphoria either. People look at her and see a slim face, breasts set on a slim figure, assume the presence of a vagina, and say she’s a woman. While she can’t say she is any other gender, she can't definitively say she's female either, not when she doesn't understand what that even means.

But if she’s not female, shouldn’t Lardo have figured it out in college? In her proudly queer, liberal arts college? Surrounded by friends who could collectively represent every possible letter that ever gets included in the LGBTQ acronym.

Shouldn't Lardo have resonated with a trans or nonbinary or agender friend as they spoke about their experiences?

Maybe Lardo just isn’t the kind of person who has “aha!” moments. She didn’t when she realized her bisexuality, already infatuated with a girl after having previous crushes only on boys.  

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

\---

A few weeks later, as she puts the finishing touches on the portrait that’s been months in the making, Kent watching peacefully from her bed, she asks, “How did you know?”

Lardo doesn’t normally like people witnessing her artistic process, a reflection of the vulnerability she holds close to her heart. But there’s a sort of mutual understanding with Kent, despite their wildly different backgrounds, that makes his presence easy to accept into all aspects of her life.

Still, she wonders if she’ll regret the words even as they slip from her lips.

There’s no ask for clarification. Lardo can feel the weight of his stare as he considers her question. She looks steadfastly at her painting.

Lardo dabs her paintbrush onto the palette, swirling the bristles in the red-orange she mixed earlier. She breathes in the faint chemical scent of the paint and overall mugginess from the humidity to maintain a calm façade—that Kent probably sees right through—and lightly feathers more color onto the canvas in front of her.

Is he taking offense to her question? Does he know what Lardo is talking about?

There’s a droplet of sweat traveling down Lardo’s back, a combination of nerves and the inescapable summer heat.

Her fears are in vain.

“I just did. It was little bits and pieces that added up to the same thing. It was a feeling of rightness, to say I was a boy. It still is. You just… know. But it’s okay if you don’t know.” Kent’s voice is soft and steady as he replies.

Lardo lets out a shuddery breath and places her brush into the can of muddy water next to her. She closes her eyes and doesn’t turn around.

The darkness helps Lardo focus, past the way her heart is drumming up a beat that drives a pulsing she can feel in her ears, past the churning in her stomach, past the strangling knot in her throat.

“I just… don’t really get it. Being a woman. I can’t definitively say I am one. I mean—I don’t mind being called ‘she’ and all that.”

There’s a pause, as Kent waits to see if Lardo will anything more, before he asks, “But other pronouns could also fit?”

“Yeah.” Lardo finally turns around and looks at Kent, seeking and finding reassurance in the calm blue of his eyes. “Yeah,” Lardo says again, voice more confident.

Kent takes this in stride. “Do you know which ones? They/them, ze/zir, ey/eir…?”

Lardo wants to know how Kent can so easily accept every part of them that Lardo offers up, how he effortless soothes the part of them that seeks validation. The answer probably lies somewhere between the part of his personality that tries to please others, the loving upbringing he got from Mariana’s care, and the years of therapy he’s been in.

Instead, Lardo keeps on track, and admits out loud for the first time, “They/them. I like the familiarity of it.”

“Okay.” The way Kent smiles at them is too much, and Lardo looks towards their painting again. He senses that the conversation is over and asks, “Are you done?”

They smile in relief at the painting, finished a whole week before the showcase Lardo is entered. “Yeah,” Lardo says, for the third time today, satisfied with a lot more than they have been recently.

\---

Kent calls them when he’s having a Bad Day. Lardo knows they happen, if rarely, but they’ve never known Kent to have one in the time they’ve known him.

At first, Lardo thinks he misdialed or butt-called. But they wait out the silence and get a quiet “Lards…”

A spike of adrenaline shoots through Lardo as they realize what’s happening. They don’t know what to do, or how to handle Bad Day Kent, because what if they meddle and turn it into a Worse Day? But they have to try.

Lardo asks if he wants them to come over and eventually Kent responds with an affirmative answer. They keep Kent on the phone as they jog over, suddenly very grateful that their recent routine of jogging to abate the still undiagnosed mix of anxiety-depression means that their cardio is up to snuff, even at noon under the summer sun.

They get to the bakery and enter from the back, quietly communicating to Mariana what’s happening and getting access to the upstairs living quarters. Lardo gently opens Kent’s bedroom door and assesses the situation.

The curtains are closed, with only a few thin strips of light streaming through imperfections in coverage. Kent lies on the bed, inside the bed, curled towards the outer edge. He stares blankly at his phone, resting on the nightstand.

There’s a rustling of the sheets as Kent looks towards them, blue eyes devoid of his usual spirit.

“Kent,” Lardo says, breaking the silence that suddenly feels suffocating. “What can I do to help?”

Kent doesn’t respond verbally, but he does shift over, away from the edge of the bed, until there’s space for another person.

Lardo can take the hint. They leave their shoes by the doorway and softly pads over. "Hey," they whisper, in a hopefully soothing tone, as they slip into the bed. Lardo chooses to sit, adjusting the pillow so it cushions their back as they leans on the headboard.

Kent curls into their side and seems to settle as Lardo runs their hand through his hair.

At first, Lardo is all jittery nerves, barely able to keep their hand from trembling as it cards through Kent’s hair.

They both shift occasionally but remain quiet.

Eventually, Lardo realizes that they don’t have to be anything else, do anything else.

Time passes.

Lardo thinks about how dear to their heart Kent is, after only a few short months. They think about how this may be a step backwards for him, but he will inevitably recover, rise up once more to seize the day. He has a support network of people who will help lift him back up, techniques from several years worth of professional help.

Maybe it’s conceited to think about themself in this situation, but the way he’s reaching out to them right now makes Lardo take similar steps.

The little peaks of light slowly shift across the room, and it’s only when they start to turn color from the impending sunset that Kent speaks.

“Talk to me?” He asks, voice hoarse from disuse. He shifts about and holds onto the hand Lardo has kept on his head this entire time. His hand is warm and she squeezes in acknowledgment.

Lardo talks. About their first time getting drunk at a high school party and their first time getting high at a college one. About their first tattoo and second and third and fourth. About the stray cats they come across on the street and Lardo’s sporadic attempts to play Pokemon Go while jogging.

Their throat starts to feel dry from talking, but Lardo ignores it and keeps talking.

Kent responds with noises and single words at first, which Lardo understands is more of a way to show he’s paying attention than to contribute to the conversation.

The room is almost dark by the time he chooses to speak again. He shifts up, bed covers pooling in his lap. Before he can let go of their hand, Lardo tugs him closer and presses their lips gently to the phoenix tattoo that spans his entire forearm.

Kent is sunshine smiles and loving laughter a lot of the time, with a strong helping of sincere validation mixed in. But even the brightest stars have darker facets. They’ve shared their trauma with each other before, but never in such an intimate way.

Lardo doesn’t want Kent to worry that this might drive Lardo away, for him to doubt that they intend to be here for him, in a way Lardo knows would be reciprocated.

They let their lips linger for a moment before pulling back to admire the ink. Flames radiate out from the feathers of a majestic bird.

Kent rose up from the ashes of his past and continues to do so every day. He fights for a place in the world and for his own happiness and the happiness of the people he cares about.

It makes Lardo want to do the same.

Lardo doesn’t see themself going through rebirth and renewal the same way, though. They feel more like a plant, finally able to grow and blossom under a nurturing light.

It’s time for Lardo to confide in the other friends that have reached out all summer and only gotten back cheery platitudes.

It’s time to find a therapist and focus on their issues in a way friends and partners can't and shouldn't fix.

It’s probably time for a new tattoo.

But first, it’s time for dinner.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading <3 Kudos and feedback are much appreciated.
> 
> Come say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/FaiaSakura) or [Tumblr](http://faiasakura.tumblr.com)!


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